“Then what exactly do you want?”
“I want my son to care!”
His voice rose for the first time.
“I DO CARE!”
The shout echoed through the hallway.
Grace froze.
So did I.
Harold took a breath.
Then spoke more quietly.
“I care so much that I’ve spent my entire adult life trying not to upset you.”
Grace said nothing.
“I call when I’m exhausted. I visit when I have other plans. I agree with you when I don’t. I let you criticize my clothes, my career, my house, my wife—”
“I do not criticize Emma.”
Harold looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then we both looked at Grace.
She frowned.
“What?”
“You told her the curtains make our living room look cheap.”
“They do.”
“You said her lasagna was too salty.”
“It was.”
“You said our wedding flowers looked like funeral flowers.”
“They were lilies.”
“They were peonies.”
“Whatever they were, they drooped.”
I whispered,
“Oh my God.”
Grace lifted her hands.
“So honesty is illegal now?”
“No,” Harold said. “But disrespect has consequences.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a boundary.”
“I’m sick of that word.”
“That doesn’t make it disappear.”
They stared at each other.
And for the first time, I saw something shift.
Grace finally seemed to understand that Harold wasn’t performing for me.
This wasn’t temporary.
He meant it.
He had reached some invisible limit.
And once Grace saw that, she became strangely calm.
That frightened me
more than the yelling.
She put down the suitcase.
“All right.”
Harold frowned.
“All right?”
“I’ll stay until morning.”
Then she gave him a faint smile.
“I don’t want to create a scene.”
